I had not time this morning to answer your letter
by Mr. Essex, but I gave him the card you desired.
You know, I hope, how happy I am to obey any orders
of yours.

In the paper I showed you in answer to Masters, you
saw I was apprised of Rastel’s Chronicle:
but pray do not mention my knowing of it; because
I draw so much from it, that I lie in wait, hoping
that Milles, or Masters, or some of their fools, will
produce it against me; and then I shall have another
word to say to them, which they do not expect, since
they think Rastel makes for them.

Mr. Gough(93) wants to be introduced to me!
Indeed! I would see him, as he has been midwife
to Masters; but he is so dull, that he would only
be troublesome—­and besides you know I shun
authors, and would never have been One myself, if it
obliged me to keep such bad company. They are
always in earnest, and think their profession serious,
and dwell upon trifles, and reverence learning.
I laugh at all those things, and write only to laugh
at them, and divert myself. None of us are authors
of any consequence; and it is the most ridiculous in
all vanities to be vain of being mediocre. A
page in a great author humbles me to the dust; and
the conversation of those that are not superior to
myself, reminds me of what will be thought of myself.
I blush to flatter them, or to be flattered by them,
and should dread letters being published some time
or other, in which they should relate our interviews,
and we should appear like those puny conceited Witlings
in Shenstone’s and Hughes’ Correspondence,(94)
who give themselves airs from being in possession
of the soil of Parnassus for the time being; as peers
are proud, because they enjoy the estates of great
men who went before them. Mr. Gough is very welcome
to see Strawberry Hill; or I would help him to any
scraps in my possession, that would assist his publications;
though he is one of those industrious who are only
reburying the dead-but I cannot be acquainted with
him. It is contrary to my system, and my humour;
and, besides, I know nothing of barrows, and Danish
entrenchments, and Saxon barbarisms, and Phoenician
characters—­in short, I know nothing of those
ages that knew nothing—­then how should
I be of use to modern literati? All the Scotch
metaphysicians have sent me their works. I did
not read one of them, because I do not understand
what is not understood by those that write about it;
and I did not get acquainted with one of the writers.
I should like to be intimate with Mr. Anstey,(95)
even though he wrote Lord Buckhorse, or with the author
of the Heroic Epistle.(96) I have no thirst to know
the rest of my contemporaries, from the absurd bombast
of Dr. Johnson down to the silly Dr. Goldsmith; though
the latter changeling has had bright gleams of parts,
and the former had sense, ’till he charged it
for words, and sold it for a pension. Don’t
think me scornful. Recollect that I have seen
Pope, and lived with Gray. Adieu! Yours
ever.